


nothing but me in a worse way

by ilyasomina



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Stalking, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:28:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28058445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilyasomina/pseuds/ilyasomina
Summary: “I think there’s a murderer with a crush on me,” Richie says.Ben snorts into his drink. “Yeah, okay.” Then, when Richie stays blank-faced, his smile drops. “Oh God, you’re serious?”-Richie is definitely being watched, and quite possibly followed. He just hasn't decided if he's okay with it yet.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 38
Kudos: 205





	nothing but me in a worse way

**Author's Note:**

> yes, here it is. do not ask why because i do not have an answer for you.
> 
> age/setting wise, i'd place all the losers in their early thirties in this fic, and it's set in NYC. there is a playlist that goes along with this fic that you can [find here on spotify!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0MNBJTQYgSn8XaLLgnLCwp?si=4__0WvOBS3inNc_6ppirGQ)
> 
> thank you to my wife @shardmind for the roses and the beta'ing and the all around support while i wrote this ♡ shoutout to her un included but very on brand tag "Stabbing But As An Allegory For Sex". title loosely comes from "small tactics" by margaret atwood.

There’s a bar on West 19th and 8th that they frequent almost every night after work. It’s big but often cramped, and the drinks are cheap but the people who frequent it can get a bit pretentious. The only reason they go so often is because Ben knows the bartender, and he always gives them a discount- which Richie thinks is fair even if Ben didn’t know him, because they as a group drink such an exorbitant amount of the place’s liquor weekly.

The point is, they are at this bar so regularly that Richie knows the usual faces, knows who comes and who goes and can usually place most of the people on a regular night. Almost all of them.

Tonight, there is a stranger in the corner of the bar, sleek and hidden halfway in the dark, whose eyes are fixed on Richie.

Richie wonders if he knows him, or if one of his friends knows the man. Or perhaps the man is only lost in thought, and his stare has just happened to lock on them at the bar top as he turns thoughts over in his head. Richie can’t make out his face, his features indiscernible in the shadows of the corner booth he’s tucked into, but he can see the twinkle of those eyes fixed on him.

"Richie," Beverly says, hand laying on his wrist to get his attention. "What do you think?"

Richie tears his eyes away from the stranger, turning back to his friends. They are looking at him expectantly, clearly waiting for an answer.

"Huh?" He asks, because that's all he can muster as his brain switches back to the here and now.

Ben rolls his eyes pointedly. "Are you coming to dinner on Friday with us? Bev has to make the reservations before Wednesday."

"Oh," Richie pushes his glasses up his nose and curls his hands around the wet glass of his beer. "Yeah, I got nothing going on on Friday."

"Okay, great," Beverly flashes him a smile and pulls out her phone. "I think they take reservations online, but I have to put a card on file."

"Have Bill make the reservation," Mike suggests cheerily. "He can pay for dinner."

"Just because he has money doesn't mean we have to make him pay for every meal,” Beverly says.

"I disagree," Ben pipes up. "In fact, he should pay for _more_ than our meals. He should also pay our rent."

They all laugh. Richie huffs out a breath through his teeth, only half paying attention to the conversation. He can still feel the gaze of the stranger in the corner on the back of his neck, burning and inescapable; but when he turns around to look again, the man is gone.

-:-

On Wednesday afternoon, Richie is arguing with Bill on the phone about a manuscript when the prettiest man he’s ever seen steps into the elevator with him, and Richie forgets how to speak.

“They only want two more scenes,” Richie tells his friend, rubbing at his forehead and trying to balance a coffee tray of three lattes in one hand. “Just two tiny little scenes. Noah is on my ass about it.”

“I don’t w-want to include a whole m-monologue scene,” Bill says stubbornly. His voice is tinny and far off, the call just barely coming through on the elevator. “Tell h-him I’ll write the first o-one, but the second is no d-dice.”

Richie groans audibly, glaring at the floor as though it were Bill. “You’re killing me, man.”

The elevator door dings and slides open, and a stranger steps on. Richie takes in the sleek black dress shoes, the bare ankles and dark blue suit, finally landing on a face that looks like it was made just for Richie. Sharp and daunting, only losing intimidation in the big brown doe eyes staring back at him and the little dimples when the man smiles at Richie. There’s an old scar across his left cheek, marring his otherwise perfect skin, and a tiny bruise on the edge of his forehead.

“Hello,” The stranger says, and Richie suddenly realizes his mouth is half open, midway through beginning to say something else to Bill. He snaps it shut, instead smiling back like an idiot at the man until he realizes he should probably say something back.

“Uh, hey,” Richie replies.

“What?” Bill asks on the phone. Richie ignores him.

The stranger glances at his phone, looking amused, then asks, “Have we met before? You look familiar.”

Richie shakes his head, readjusting the coffee tray in his hands just to have somewhere to channel the nervous energy suddenly zinging through him. He’s pretty sure his palms are starting to sweat just being in the same elevator as this man. “Nope, don’t think so.”

“What’s your name?” The stranger asks, very pointedly, still smiling kindly.

“Richie Tozier,” Richie blurts out.

“Do you w-want me to hang up?” Bill demands angrily.

The stranger’s mouth twitches when Bill’s voice rings staticky through the phone’s speaker. He suddenly presses the _open_ button of the elevator, his smile turning into one that’s all bright white teeth and gums- it looks almost alarming in how cheery it is, his eyes a little crazy as steps out of the elevator and turns on his heel to look back.

“Have a nice day, Richie,” The stranger says, the doors sliding closed on Richie’s name. 

It is only when the elevator reaches his floor that Richie realizes that, one, he did not get the stranger’s name, and two, Bill had finally hung up. 

-:-

Bill does end up paying for dinner on Friday night, because he almost always does, even if they all try to flag down the waiter or pretend to go to the bathroom to actually go pay before they think he can. The upside is Richie never has to pay for dinner when they all go out; the downside is Bill usually gets to hold over their heads until the next dinner, when he’ll just pay again and the cycle continues.

Currently, the restaurant they’re at is upscale and French, something that Richie wouldn’t be caught dead in under any other circumstances, because his entire being screams _out of place_ . Ben had loaned him a nice blazer to wear, and Bev had essentially implied if he didn’t wear a normal button down, “nothing _printed,_ okay?”, she would strangle Richie with the tablecloth.

They’re all pleasantly tipsy on expensive wine, Mike patiently trying to explain to them the names of the dishes they had ordered in perfect French while the rest of them butchered the words fantastically. Richie has a mouthful of chicken and is laughing at something Bill says when the back of his neck prickles, and he drops his fork with a clatter to the floor.

He doesn’t know how he knows it- it’s like the unmistakable feeling of deja vu, or the recognition of somewhere you haven’t been in a very long time. It’s the way you can feel it on your skin when you know someone’s eyes are on you. Richie can tell he’s being watched without looking, can feel it raise the hairs on his arms, and he _recognizes_ the feeling. Like this person has watched him before, like he knows them.

He turns in his chair slowly, head swiveling around the room as he tries to place the gaze. One of his friends says his name, but it sounds far off, muffled.

Finally, his eyes land on the table diagonally across from theirs, in the back left corner of the restaurant. The lighting is dim and the table is in the shadows, but Richie sees him. He recognizes the gaze, the eyes settled on his face as the stranger who had been watching him in the bar earlier that week. But now he recognizes the face, can put features to the shadowy feeling- it’s the man he had met in the elevator the other day, who had asked his name and then hastily left before Richie could ask the same. 

It shouldn’t be unsettling. It could’ve easily been a coincidence, that the man had seen him at the bar, hence asking if they’d met when they’d shared the elevator, and now they happened to be at the same restaurant and the man was also noticing Richie the same time Richie noticed him. It just seemed like too many times for it to be a coincidence.

Richie is holding the man’s gaze, both of them held still in place as they watch each other. The man’s expression doesn’t change, doesn’t even twitch- he simply keeps staring at Richie, blank faced, the shadows from the lighting laying the planes of his face into sharp lines. Richie’s neck prickles again.

“Richie!”

Almost violently, he is pulled from his reverie by Mike, who shakes his shoulder roughly. He turns back around, blinks at the rest of them, who are all watching him in different states of concern. Mike’s still got a hand on his shoulder, like he’s afraid he needs to keep it there to ground Richie.

“What?” Richie asks, trying to play it off, and Beverly gives him a startled look.

“Are you okay, Rich?” She asks, gently. Under the uneasy gazes of his friends, Richie suddenly feels laid out and seen. Not at all like how he felt when the man looked at him. He shrugs off Mike’s hand in what he hopes is a casual move, reaching down to pick up his fork from the floor where it had fallen.

“I’m fine,” He says, putting on a cheery smile. “I thought a bug landed on me.”

Bill frowns. “I don’t think t-there are any bugs in here.”

“You never know,” Richie forks another piece of chicken into his mouth and tries as hard as he can to not hold himself tensely, like he still feels inside. “These places could be crawling with them.”

Ben makes a disgusted noise, and slowly, the concern eases out of them, the conversation moving on easily. Richie keeps his back to the far left corner of the restaurant the rest of the night, holding his shoulders high and his nerves on high alert. When they all finally get up to leave, Richie spares one final glance in the table’s direction, but the stranger is gone. 

-:-

On his way home from the grocery store on Sunday, Richie gets a call from Mike, who got a call from Bill, who got a call from Bev, who got a call from Ben that his friend, Liam, the bartender at that bar they frequent, is dead, and it’s most likely being investigated as a murder.

Richie’s first thought is, _why did we all play telephone tag for this information when we have a group chat?_ His second thought is, _holy fuck, Liam’s dead._ His third thought is, _holy fuck, Liam was_ murdered.

He detours on his way home past the bar, which is only a few blocks out of the way between his apartment and the grocery store. He can already tell he’s getting close when he notices news trucks, and people with cameras, and more police cars than he thinks necessary.

He walks as casually as he can down the sidewalk, sidestepping camera men and curious onlookers, until he’s just a few meters away from the bright yellow DO NOT CROSS tape that covers the front doors of the bar. There’s not much else to see, just police ushering nosey news reporters away with grim faces, and the occasional officer ducking in or out of the scene. 

Richie is standing there, taking in everything with the muted sort of surprise slash shock that one has only when in a situation where someone twice removed from you has been murdered (a feeling that he, in all honesty, never thought he’d experience in his life), when he the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

It is familiar and frightening at the same time. At first he whips his head around, looking for the source, but no one is close enough to him to have been the cause- nobody is even looking at him. But he _knows_ the feeling, and despite making jokes about it when he’s stressed out, he is definitely not crazy, thank you very much. Which is why he stays sharp, keeps looking in his peripheral vision for what’s causing his skin to prickle ominously.

Sure enough, when a police car light flashes, and the red and blue light bounces off the window of the bar, Richie sees him- the stranger is watching him again.

This time, he’s across the street, and Richie can only see him in the reflection of the window. Richie doesn’t move, rooted to the spot, can’t turn around to face him. He is only left to meet the stranger’s gaze through the window.

This time, it feels different. Different because they’re in broad daylight, and there are crowds of people around, and anyone else can _see_ the man watching him. Different because Richie can see his face, like he had in the elevator, but so openly staring at him. Different because the man shifts the slightest increment when he sees Richie looking back at him, tilts his head to the side and offers the tiniest smile to Richie. 

Richie’s whole body shivers, out of his control. The man must catch it, because his smile widens, and it turns dangerous and predatory for a moment.

The police lights flash again, and Richie watches as the man simply breaks his gaze and walks away, leaving Richie still frozen in place, the ice cream in his grocery bag most definitely melting by now. 

-:-

Richie’s heart almost lurches to a stop when he finds about half a dozen cop cars outside of the building where he works a few mornings later. Although he’s never done anything illegal (minus the edibles he used to take religiously in college, but does that _really_ count?), he suddenly gets a zip of panic up his spine, like he’s been caught doing something wrong. It leaves as quickly as it came, and he chooses to ignore it when he spots Mike and Bill standing near the front doors, waving at him.

Richie makes a beeline for them, avoiding police officers, and accepts one of the coffees Mike’s holding gratefully.

“What the hell happened, man?” Richie asks, side eyeing the officer keeping curious pedestrians at bay. Mike shrugs.

“We don’t know. They won’t let us through until they clear the building for entrance,” Mike explains.

“T-That was half an h-hour ago,” Bill grumbles. “Someone p-probably broke in again a-and triggered the alarms.”

“Who the fuck breaks into a publishing company?” Richie asks out loud.

“A rival company?” Mike suggests.

“A rejected writer?” Bill adds.

There’s not a lot of time for them to ponder this, though, because within a few minutes a police officer opens the front door and begins letting their co-workers through, and the three of them begin to shuffle forward as well.

Until Richie feels it. Right up against his neck, like someone is breathing down his shirt, the hairs there standing up and prickling uncomfortably.

He whips around mid step, already being jostled by a crowd of people trying to get to work on time, and catches him in his sight. The stranger is standing at the front of the now dispersing group of pedestrians watching the scene. He stands just behind the officer keeping them back, stock still, staring right at Richie.

Richie doesn’t have time to react, or even keep his eyes on the man for too long. The people around him push him gently forward, and the last thing he sees before entering the building is the stranger flashing him a proud looking smile.

“Rich,” Bill calls, and Richie is thrown from his thoughts by the other man grabbing hold of his wrist and pulling him away from the crowd. “Y-you okay? You look like you’ve s-seen a ghost.”

Richie’s sure his face looks terrified, and he tries to fix it into something in the semblance of normal. “Yeah,” He says, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as shaky as he feels. “I thought someone was following me.” 

“Yeah, I thought someone was following me, too,” Mike jokes. “The cops.”

Richie snorts, momentarily distracted from the stranger just outside his work. He hopes, as he gets on the elevator with his friends and they head up to their floor, that the man will be gone by the time he leaves.

A very, very, very tiny part of him wishes he won’t be.

It’s not even a handful of hours later that Richie is sitting in his office, hard at work, when there’s a knock on his door and a delivery person stands there, awkwardly holding an absolutely _huge_ bouquet of flowers.

“Uh,” Richie stares at the guy, nose already twitching from the strong scent of the bouquet. “I think you have the wrong office, man.”

The man glances at the form on his clipboard, then at the door boasting a plaque with Richie’s name. “Richard Tozier?”

Richie, baffled, nods. He doesn’t even _know_ anyone who would send him flowers. The only person who would possibly do it would be Beverly, and even then, she’d probably do it as a joke and to laugh herself silly when all the women at Richie’s work start gossiping about his secret girlfriend. He keeps staring, even as the delivery man sets the flowers down on his desk gently and he signs the paper. He’s still staring at them when the man leaves.

They’re white roses, huge and blooming big, dispersed by bunches of lavender all throughout. The vase they’re in is glass and looks heavy, and Richie doesn’t even know what he’s going to do with these. What do people do with flowers? He’s killed every plant he’s ever owned other than a succulent he had in college, and he’s definitely never taken care of _flowers._

There is a small card tucked between the flowers, hidden from first view. It’s actually less of a card and more of a small square of paper when Richie fishes it out, just barely the size of the palm of his hand.

 **_FOR YOU._ ** _♥_

It looks to be smeared in red ink, drawn hastily, the ink leaving tiny droplets on the edges. Richie stares at it, and stares at it, and it is with shock and only a little bit of terror that he realizes it is not red ink. It’s blood.

He feels like he should drop the card. He should probably go catch the delivery person, demand to know who sent these, but he already _knows._ Deep down, he knows exactly who sent these flowers, exactly who scrawled this message for him and slid it lovingly between the flowers for him to find. And he should tell someone, should call the police because this was definitely past the realm of things he could handle (a little light stalking) and bordering the line of illegal (possibly murder).

He stands there for a while, just staring at the card, mind a million miles away as he tries to picture what was going through the stranger’s mind when he wrote this, when he ordered the flowers to be delivered. He is interrupted from his thoughts by Mike barging into his office like a man on a mission, face flushed and panting from exertion.

“Richie, oh, my God-” He cuts himself off, frowning suddenly when he spots the flowers on Richie’s desk. “Who sent you flowers?”

Richie, for some unknown reason to even himself, pockets the note quickly, and shrugs. “Dunno,” He says, his hands trembling beside him. “They didn’t leave a card.” He looks Mike up and down, frowning himself. “Did you run here from three floors down?”

Mike seems to immediately forget the flowers, instead shutting the door beside him and approaching Richie’s desk, voice low. “I found out why the cops were here.”

Richie’s heart skips a beat. “Yeah? What was it?”

“Noah,” Mike says, and Richie thinks of their editor in chief, who works on the top floor and is a pain in Richie’s ass. In everyone’s ass, really, generally stuffy and uptight and too critical of everyone’s work. “He was killed here last night.”

Richie is sure the note in his pocket is suddenly made of lead, it weighs so much now. His heart rate seems to stop for a moment before picking up tenfold, and he abruptly feels weak in the knees. He collapses into his desk chair, face definitely blanched. “What the _fuck.”_

“Yeah,” Mike agrees. “Bill heard it from Kathy, who heard it from Sarah, who overheard it from a police officer this morning. Apparently the board is trying to cover their asses and scrambling to figure out what happened before they make the announcement to all of us in a few days.”

“Who killed him?” Richie blurts out, even though he thinks he knows the answer.

Mike shrugs. “They don’t know. I’m assuming someone he owed money to, I think he had a gambling problem. Remember when he went to that casino that weekend two years ago and lost, like, half of his salary? I’m pretty sure his wife-”

Mike’s voice fades to background noise as Richie stares out the window, mind wiped clean of anything but the stranger. That was the second person dead since Richie had started seeing the man around. The second person that Richie _knows_ showing up dead, which can’t be a coincidence. Is the stranger getting closer and closer to Richie? Is he coming for Richie next? Is he sending a message? 

The note in his pocket is like a physical reminder that yes, the stranger is sending a message. Richie’s just not sure what that message really means. 

-:-

Richie is walking home from work two nights later, sidestepping drunk bar goers and juggling one to many folders of work he needs to edit when he gets there, when he gets the feeling again.

It’s different this time. He can’t turn around because he’s walking, and he knows if he doesn’t pay attention where he’s going he’ll run right into someone and it’ll be a whole mess. But he knows that someone is watching him, knows that someone _(Not someone,_ he tells himself, _it’s the stranger. Who else would it be?)_ has their eyes on him.

The difference, this time, is that the feeling follows him. Down five blocks and across the street, past the old bar and down three more blocks, the feeling lingers. The stranger follows him.

Richie likes to think he is a smart, rational man. As much as he jokes, and can’t take things seriously half the time, he does know how to be mature in certain situations, and he knows how to handle things like an adult. He thinks he has coherent, sane reactions and solutions to most of the things that happen to him.

Right now, Richie does not feel afraid. He thinks that is the least rational reaction he has ever had in his life. 

He almost _wishes_ he was scared, wishes he was terrified and stepped into a bar or restaurant or stopped a group of strangers to say, _“Hey, my stalker is following me home right now- what do you mean you don't have a stalker? Doesn't everyone? Anyway, can I hang out here for a bit until I’m sure he’s gone?”._ That would be a smart thing to do. That would be the right thing to do.

Instead, Richie continues on his route home. Even as he walks through the more residential area, the nightlife and people on the streets dispersing, leaving only the darkness and buildings interspersed with street lights and the occasional distant police siren, he continues on. He lets the stranger follow him. He doesn’t do _anything._

It’s only when he’s just a few buildings away from his own that he stops dead in his tracks. It’s the only time he’s caught the stranger off guard, he thinks, because a few meters behind him hears the scuffle of shoes, like the stranger didn’t expect him to stop and stumbled trying to stop as well. Richie stands perfectly still, weighing his options. He could continue on to his building, let the stranger see exactly where he lives, or he could turn around and face the stranger, demand he leave him alone. Or he could walk in a completely opposite direction, throw the stranger off his trail and then run home as fast as his legs will take him and call the police.

Richie thinks they both know he would never choose the last option.

With what is probably a clinically insane level of stupidity, Richie takes a deep breath and turns on his heel.

There is no one behind him. Richie didn’t hear anyone walk away, but when he turns around the sidewalk is empty and the only sound is the flickering of the lamp post a few feet away.

Richie ends up falling asleep on the couch at midnight, sprawled out with papers and his laptop precariously perched in his lap. He dreams about an empty face, shadowy figures in the middle of the day that he can't seem to place, and someone reaching out to grab his shoulder from behind.

When he wakes, it is with the absolute certainty he is not alone.

Before he even opens his eyes, he _knows._ He can just sense someone else in the room with him, goosebumps prickling his skin at that familiar feeling of being watched.

It takes a moment for his vision to adjust to the darkness. He's already half blind without his glasses, even when there is light, so it takes longer than usual for him to be able to make sense of the blurry shapes around him. When he finally does, he takes things in one by one- the sharp edges of his kitchen counters, the lights from the city muted and blocked out by the curtains, the soft humming of the air conditioning.

The front door open completely, the stranger standing in the doorframe with his face in shadows and the light from the street illuminating him from behind, like some sort of fucked up angel.

The air is tense, and both of them are frozen in place, like neither expected the other to catch them looking. For the first time, the stranger seems hesitant, hovering in the doorway like he's not sure what to do next. He seems different tonight.

Richie does the first thing that comes to mind, which is to blurt out, "Hey."

He can't see the stranger’s face, the darkness and his poor eyesight combining to make everything blurred and cast in deep shadows, but he can tell the man is surprised. There's a long silence as Richie waits for the man to reply, but he says nothing.

"What are you doing here?" Richie asks, suddenly feeling more bold now that he knows the stranger doesn't know what his next move is. "Why are you following me?"

Still, no response.

"Who are you?" Richie pushes on, and he shoves his laptop and papers off his lap to sit up. The stranger jerks visibly, body tensing into a position of fight or flight. Not at all like the calm, dangerous presence he has given off before. "What the fuck do you want?"

When Richie moves to get to his feet, the stranger bolts. Richie has no hope of catching him, he already knows, and so he's left standing in his living room, staring at his front door thrown wide open and listening to the sound of feet pounding against concrete as the stranger runs away.

-:-

Richie gathers up the gall to say something to his friends about two days later. It’s at dinner, and it takes him three glasses of wine and almost all of the meal for him to work up the courage to say it. He ends up blurting it out when there’s a lull in the conversation, all of them still chuckling ver something Ben had said. A perfect time to bring down the mood, he thinks.

“I think there’s a murderer with a crush on me,” Richie says.

Ben snorts into his drink. “Yeah, okay.” Then, when Richie stays blank-faced, his smile drops. “Oh God, you’re serious?”

“Is this a b-bit?” Bill asks dubiously. They’re all looking at him, faces doubtful, and his hands suddenly feel like they’re shaking. He laughs a little too loudly.

“Yeah, that’d be a weird bit, right?” He downs the rest of the wine in his glass and forcefully coughs, just to try to get the ball of nerves in his stomach out. “Imagine if I made a weird dark turn with my jokes? No, I get it, it’s a weird thing to say, but yeah. I think there’s a murderer with a crush on me. Actually, I think he has more than a crush on me, honestly I think he’s been stalking me? Wait, no, he _has_ been stalking me, he’s been following me for a while and he’s getting braver and braver with the shit he’s been doing, and I know I sound way too casual about this right now, but I don’t know how to say something like this. ‘Hey, guys, this was a great dinner. By the way, I’m too scared to walk home alone tonight because there’s a strange man who’s following me and definitely a murderer and he might be in my apartment, again, and I really just want a good night’s fucking sleep but I can’t do that with a certified stalker, now can I?’”

The silence that follows his monologuing is deafening. Beverly’s jaw has actually dropped open. They all wear expressions that are equal parts shocked and terrified. For lack of anything else to say, Richie laughs again, and it sounds crazy even to himself.

“Imagine if I said this was a bit,” He jokes, voice shaky, and this springs them into action, all of them talking at once.

“-how l-long is ‘a while’-”

“-stalking you? Like actually stalking-”

“-murderer! Murderer as in killed people-”

“-Again?! He’s been in your apartment _before?!”_ Ben demands. This is the line they’ve decided to focus on, because they all look at Richie, expectant and waiting for an answer.

Richie swallows hard. “Yeah. Um, the other night.”

“The other _night?!”_ Beverly almost shrieks, and a few people at nearby tables give them annoyed looks. Richie winces.

“What did he do to you, Richie?” Mike asks, voice much gentler than the others. Beside him, Ben looks like he’s going to be ill.

“Nothing!” Richie says, and they all collectively raise their eyebrows at him. He groans. “Look, he didn’t, like, assault me or anything. I woke up in the middle of the night and he was just… _there._ And I tried to talk to him, but he just left.”

Ben puts his head in his hands, and Bill says, “You t-tried to talk t-to him?” 

“I mean, if he’s stalking me, don’t you think he’d want to talk to me?” Richie asks weakly, smiling like it’s funnier than it is. He can’t be serious about this. If he’s too serious, he’ll crack, and he can’t do that in public. In front of his friends.

“How long has he been stalking you?” Mike asks.

Richie shrugs. “I don’t know. A while. Since before Liam died, I think.”

Ben’s head snaps out of his hands, and he looks scandalized. “Liam died _three weeks ago!”_

“Richie, why haven’t you called the police?” Beverly hisses, clutching her wine glass so hard it looks like it might break. “Why didn’t you call the police when it started?”

“Well, Miss Marsh, here’s the thing,” Richie drums his fingers against the tabletop, trying to figure out the best way to put this. “I was going to, you see, but he uh- Okay, well, first of all, he definitely killed Noah.”

Bill turns pale. “How do y-you know that?”

“He left me, uh,” Richie fishes into his back pocket, producing the crumpled little paper from his desk. “He left me this.”

He smoothes the paper out and places it in the center of the table. He watches the rest of them lean in, watches their faces as they squint at the paper, watches the frowns melt into abject horror as they realize what they're looking at. 

“Is that-” Ben begins.

Richie nods solemnly.

“I think I’m g-gonna be sick,” Bill says, covering his mouth and closing his eyes. 

“How do you think I feel?” Richie snaps, snatching up the note and stuffing it back into his pocket. “I can’t go to the fucking police with a note written in Noah’s blood that says it’s for me, I’ll be a suspect in murder, you guys.”

There’s silence. Richie rubs at his face, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable. He’s questioning whether he should’ve told them in the first place- realistically, it’s the safest thing to do. So, why does it feel like he’s doing something wrong by sharing his experiences with this stranger?

“What do you want us to do, Richie?” Mike asks, and he sounds like he’s genuinely asking. He puts his hand on Richie’s shoulder, strong and comforting, and squeezes. “What are _you_ going to do?” 

Richie takes a deep, shaky breath. “I don’t know.”

Hesitantly, Ben asks, “Do you _want_ to go to the police? Without the note, I mean?”

Richie looks up at him. His friends' looks of terror had turned to looks of concern, and maybe even a little pity. His stomach is tight and in knots, and he feels overwhelmed by the amount of eyes on him. More so than he does when the stranger watches him. Unable to stop it, he can feel his eyes welling up. He swallows again, and it just makes them worse, until his vision is blurry with unshed tears.

“I just want to know what he fucking wants,” He finally says, and his voice breaks in the middle.

By the end of the night, they’ve decided for Richie that he can’t be alone. That he needs someone with him at all times, to walk him home and take him to work and go with him to run errands. That Ben can install a new, high-grade lock system on his front door, that he reinforces his windows, especially the one on the fire escape. Richie knows it’s a good plan. Richie knows it’s for his own safety, and it’s the rational thing to do.

It makes sense, so when it keeps Richie laying awake at night, staring at his ceiling in the dark and feeling _guilty_ over it, he just doesn’t understand why.

-:-

They had to switch bars after Liam died, for the more obvious reason that going back would’ve upset Ben and just given them all a bad taste in their mouths remembering the bartender, and for more subtle reasons that without Liam the drinks were too expensive and not worth the stuffy crowd.

The new bar they end up at is more Richie’s style, more dive-like than anything else, with a borderline sketchy patronage half the time and the stench of cigarettes and cheap beer hanging in the air. The drinks are cheap and the staff and regulars nice, so they end up frequenting it after work almost every night. It’s a nice distraction, and so far, Richie’s been enjoying it.

About two beers in he tells Mike he’s heading to the bathroom and squeezes through the throngs of people to shimmy down the crowded, tight hallway that leads to the tiny bathroom in the back. It’s got a single bulb and graffiti on the mirror, and Richie can hear the conversation of the people in the hall through the wall, but he’s tipsy and feeling happier than he can remember in a while, so he doesn’t mind.

When he opens the door, the next person in line shoves past him to go in, and he stumbles, someone catching him by the shoulders to keep him from face planting into the grimy floor.

“You should be more careful, Richie,” A smooth, deep voice says, and although he’s only heard it once before, it lights up his entire body like gasoline. All the hair on his arms and neck stand up, and his skin prickles with goosebumps when he snaps his head up and comes face to face with the stranger.

He looks _good._ Far be it from Richie to brush off someone’s attractiveness, especially when they were inches from his own face, even if they were possible murderers. The stranger’s hair is pushed back neatly, dressed down in a t-shirt and jeans and a shockingly bright red leather jacket, and his big brown eyes sparkle with amusement as he takes in Richie’s shocked expression.

Richie can’t say anything. His voice locks up in his throat, and instead he just stands there, still being held in place by the stranger, transfixed by his gaze. It warms him beneath the skin. It makes his face flush. 

Someone bumps into Richie from behind as they pass, pushing him closer to the stranger. The man lets out a low chuckle and turns Richie around, begins guiding him back down the hallway with one hand on his shoulder and the other low on his back.

“Your friends seem nice, Richie,” The stranger whispers. His lips are so close to Richie’s ear he can feel his breath against the back of his neck, sending shivers down Richie’s spine. He keeps his voice pitched quiet, soft and somehow soothing. “You can trust them, right? You’ve known them for a long time?”

Richie nods weakly. He’s half listening to the stranger, half watching his friends as they get closer and closer to their table. Beverly notices Richie coming first, spots the stranger with his hand on Richie’s back and his face close to his and she looks surprised, but in a good way. She grins cheekily, leans in and whispers something to Ben, who glances up and smiles as well when he spots them.

“Good,” The stranger murmurs. “You need to feel safe, Richie. I want you to feel safe. I want you to _be_ safe.”

“Are you safe?” Richie manages to get out, his voice scratchy and breathless. They’re just a few feet from the table now, and all his friends have noticed them approaching. “Am I safe around you?”

The stranger smiles, and Richie can feel his lips curl against the thin skin just behind his ear. He presses his lips there, soft and warm, and Richie almost jumps a foot in the air. They come to a stop at the table, and the stranger pulls away, smiling cheerily, his face fashioned into a normal, friendly expression.

“Of course,” He says, seriously. His friends watch in a hush, clearly under the impression this was a man Richie knew, or possibly even had some sort of romantic history with. The stranger turns to smile at his friends, and Richie’s stomach feels like lead as they all smile back at him curiously. “Sorry to interrupt your night. Hopefully we can meet properly some other time,” He turns back to Richie, eyes sly, and winks. “I’ll be seeing you, Richie.”

With one final squeeze on his shoulder, the stranger walks off into the crowd. Richie watches him until he’s out the front door, and only then does he let out the breath he’s been holding, big and horrified and sounding hysterical.

His friends jump at the noise, and Ben gives him a quizzical look. “Who was the boytoy, Richie?”

Mike grins. “Ex-boyfriend?”

Richie closes his eyes. His head is pulsing suddenly, and the drop down from the sheer adrenaline rush he had gotten at being that close to the stranger feels like he’s been dunked in a bucket of ice cold water. He can feel himself starting to shake, and he reaches out blindly, takes Beverly’s hand in his own and squeezes it as tightly as he can.

Beverly must be able to feel how sweaty his palms are, because she squeezes back, her voice concerned as she says, “Bad ex-boyfriend?”

“That was him,” Richie gasps out. “I think I’m gonna be fucking sick.”

It takes a moment, but one by one their faces look stricken as they realize what he means. Bill actually drops his glass, fumbling with it for a moment and catching it just before it falls to the floor.

“Oh, my God,” Ben whispers, voice sounding how Richie feels. “Oh, my _God.”_

“Richie,” Beverly says firmly. She wiggles her hand out of Richie’s grip and instead puts both palms on Richie’s face, turns his head so he’s facing her. “Richie, look at me.”

Richie meets Beverly’s gaze. The bar was too crowded and the noises too loud. Everything feels like it was pushing in on him, his chest concaving under the weight of it all.

“Keep your eyes on me, Rich,” Beverly says. Her mouth is pressed in a thin line and she looks deadly serious. “Breathe with me.”

“Jesus Christ,” He hears Mike say to the others. “Should we call the police?”

“I think I’m having a panic attack,” Richie gets out weakly.

“Breathe with me,” Beverly repeats, her hands pressing gently on Richie’s face. “Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.”

“He’s probably g-gone by now,” Bill says. “I-if there’s cameras here w-we can ask the owners t-to see them.” 

“Shut up,” Beverly snaps at the others, not even looking away from Richie, holding his gaze steadily. “Shut the fuck up, give Richie a second to breathe.”

Gasping for air, Richie hooks his hands over Beverly’s elbows for something to ground him. He follows the rise and fall of Beverly’s chest, inhales and exhales even though it feels like his heart is going to pound right out of his ribcage, until he feels semi-normal again- or at least, he isn’t hyperventilating anymore.

“Good?” Beverly asks, eventually. She rubs her thumbs over Richie’s cheekbones, eyes searching his own. “Can you breathe?” 

Richie nods. Beverly lets out a tight sigh of relief and drops her hands from his face, but doesn’t let him get far. She pulls Richie close to her with an arm around his waist, tucks him into her side despite Richie being a full foot taller than her. Richie wraps his arms around her, grounds himself with her arm tight around him. Feels marginally better with his best friend’s hair pressing against his chin and her familiar scent around him.

As he listens to their conversation turn into _“What should we do?”_ and _“Should we try to find him?”_ and _“Maybe we shouldn’t come to this bar anymore.”,_ Richie’s debilitating panic dissolves into something else. At first, he’s not entirely sure what it is- a crash after a superb adrenaline rush from running head on into your stalker would be his guess, had it not been for the continues thumping of his heart and the almost… fluttery feeling in his stomach. It’s comparable to when he was a kid and he’d see someone he had a crush on, a full body experience that made his hands shake and his heart flip in the best way. He almost feels disgusted with himself for having this reaction, and he wants to chalk it up to his brain being in overdrive and crossing wires, but he can’t even lie to himself.

Running into the stranger made him excited, and deep, deep in the back of his mind, he’s hoping they run into each other again. 

-:-

Here's the thing- Richie was never good at listening to rules. It wasn't so much as he _wanted_ to break them; it was more like he just had this intrinsic need to not listen to them. So, the fact that his friends had very specifically told him to _not_ walk home alone- to always have one of them with him when going from place to place- well, he obviously was not going to listen to that. Besides, his walk home was five minutes at most, and the stranger had already followed him there once before. What would be the point in doing it again?

He's rounding the corner to his street, the sidewalks surprisingly empty and void of life for a Thursday night, when he feels something cold press against the small of his back. He stops in his tracks, startled, and it doesn't take a genius to realize it's a gun being held against him.

For a split second, he thinks it's the stranger. But then some tiny voice in the back of his mind says, _He wouldn't hold a gun against you,_ and Richie believes it.

"Give me your fucking wallet," A man's gruff voice says, and Richie knows for a fact it's not the stranger. He remembers the smooth, almost comforting cadence of the stranger's voice at the bar. 

"Is that a gun against my back or are you just _super_ happy to see me?" Richie replies cheerily, because he has absolutely no self preservation whatsoever, and humor is his go-to, even in possible life or death situations. He pays for it, because a split second later the man hits him in the back of the head with the butt of the pistol, and Richie pitches forward and falls to his knees on the sidewalk, his head throbbing painfully, his knees scraping on the concrete.

"Ow, Jesus Christ," Richie complains, already reaching into his coat pocket for his wallet. "Okay, hang on, you don't need to be violent."

"Wallet," The man snaps, and when Richie turns around he looks up and sees his face. The man is overweight, much bigger than Richie in size and height, with a scruffy looking beard and beady eyes. He's pointing the gun directly at Richie, his expression crazed. "Now."

Richie frowns, feeling like a stereotypical New Yorker being mostly just annoyed this was happening, even with a gun in his face; although his hands visibly shake as he holds out his wallet for the man to take. "You're not gonna get much from it, dude. There's, like, six bucks in there. And a Sam's Club card. Sorry if you're a Costco man yourself."

The man snatches the wallet, glaring at Richie. "Do you ever shut the fuck up?"

Richie laughs. "No, sorry. It's a gift."

The man suddenly clicks the safety off, and Richie's heart picks up twice as fast. The noise of the gun cocking makes everything seem so much more real, and he's cursing his inability to act serious in said situations. He takes back everything he said about him being sane- he's going to die an insane man who forced his mugger's hand because he wouldn't stop cracking jokes while staring down the barrel of a 9mm. He squeezes his eyes shut.

Distantly, there is the sound of a shot firing. For less than a millisecond, Richie thinks he's been hit. But when he opens his eyes and pats his chest, he's completely fine. Instead the man is collapsed on the sidewalk, howling in pain, clutching his now bleeding knee, a perfect round bullet hole going right through the center of it.

Richie doesn't think. He scrambles to his feet, his legs feeling wobbly and his pulse thundering in his ears and his hands shaking so hard he feels jittery. He takes off running like a mad man in the direction of his apartment, leaving his mugger bleeding and crying on the sidewalk, his wallet long forgotten. When he gets home, he checks the locks thrice, downs an entire mini bottle of vodka, and immediately passes out as soon as his head hits his pillow, still in his work clothes.

Richie wakes up around two am to the sound of something thumping in his living room. For some reason, the first thought his sleep-addled brain produces is, _must be the cat._ But then he remembers he doesn’t have a cat, and suddenly his eyes are snapping open and his heart rate is picking up so quickly it definitely can’t be healthy. He fumbles with his glasses, pokes himself in the eye with them before he can get them on and sit up. Beneath his bedroom door, light dips in from the living room- a light he definitely did not leave on before going to bed.

He gets to his feet, and for some unidentifiable reason he feels… not as afraid as he should. Sure, his hands are shaking minutely, and his heart is thumping against his ribcage like a rabbit’s foot, but he doesn’t feel scared. Maybe because he knows who’s going to be in his living room. Maybe because he knows he’s not actually going to hurt him.

When he opens his bedroom door, he finds something he did not expect in the slightest.

The stranger is sitting on his couch, wiping his fingers down with a handkerchief. He’s got on all black, a turtleneck and even a silky black looking scarf tied around that, looking poised and picture perfect on Richie’s old sofa. On the floor, between the kitchen island and the coffee table, is another man’s body. Another man’s, very clearly, _dead_ body.

The stranger doesn’t move from his spot, but his gaze does flicker to Richie as he continues cleaning the (now obvious) blood from his hands. Gauging Richie’s reaction. Richie looks between him and the body a few times, the silence in the apartment almost deafening, like all other noise outside has been put on pause, the city holding its breath.

“I never got your name, you know,” Richie finally says. It’s something that’s been on his mind since he saw the stranger at the bar the other night; the man has known his name since their second meeting, but Richie doesn’t know anything about him.

The man gives Richie a curious look, but he replies, “Eddie.”

“Eddie,” Richie repeats, and he doesn’t miss the way the man’s eyes light up when he says his name. He circles around the body, takes in the blood that’s seeping from it steadily, near the neck- it must be a slit throat.

“What’s this?” Richie asks, voice quiet and steady despite the tremble in his hands.

The man, Eddie, watches him with a gaze that pierces his own. “A gift.”

“A gift,” Richie repeats, watching the blood pooling just inches short of his living room carpet. “I think we need to work on your definition of ‘gift’.”

Eddie laughs. It’s the first time Richie hears it, and he’s surprised that his first thought is _I’d like to hear that laugh again._

“Look at it,” Eddie says, nodding at the body. Richie gives him a dubious look, and Eddie just gestures again with his handkerchief. “Go on, look.”

With one socked foot, Richie pushes against the dead man’s shoulder until he flips over, landing on his back with a heavy _thump._

Richie stares down at the face of the man who had attacked him earlier that night on the way home.

“Oh,” Richie says out loud. For a very brief moment, he’s not sure how to react. But then his face suddenly heats up, out of his control, and he’s _blushing_ like he’s been given something romantic. His heart beats away at his ribcage, not in fear but in excitement- he can tell the difference. This man, Eddie, he had killed Richie’s attacker. For him. As a gift. And Richie knows it’s fucked up, knows he should be terrified, but seeing his attacker dead on the floor, reduced to nothing but a pile of lifeless bones and muscle and organs, and blood slowly staining Richie’s wood floors- he’s fine with it. He’s grateful. 

Richie looks up. Eddie is watching him intently, eyes dark. He must be able to tell Richie’s having some sort of reaction to the situation, because he looks like he’s working hard to keep himself sitting on the sofa. His fingers curl tightly in his lap, and his spine is ram-rod straight.

“Thank you,” Richie whispers. He is suddenly stricken with what Eddie had said to him that night he had found him at the bar- _I want you to feel safe. I want you to be safe._ “Thanks for keeping me safe.”

Eddie takes a stuttering inhale, closing his eyes. Richie, feeling emboldened, steps around the dead body and moves to sit gingerly beside Eddie on the couch.

Eddie opens his eyes, and it's so different to meet his gaze when there are only inches between them. When Richie is so close he can count the man's eyelashes, can see the dilation of his pupils and the slight flush of his cheeks. Richie is abruptly struck with the urge to reach out and touch his face.

Instead, Eddie reaches into his pocket before Richie can move, and produces Richie's wallet. He takes Richie's hand in his and places it into his palm, keeping a warm, tight grip on Richie's wrist. Like he doesn't want to let go.

Richie doesn't even look down, still caught in the man's stare. "Thanks," He breathes out.

"Of course," Eddie whispers. His eyes flick down to look at Richie's lips, and Richie deliriously feels like a teenager going through puberty again, all his nerves lighting up with excitement at just the proximity of another person.

"You're a great shot," Richie says, and Eddie smiles slyly, confirming Richie's suspicions that it was him who shot the attacker in the knee earlier and gave Richie a way to escape.

"Thank you," Eddie says, his eyes glittering with amusement. "I've had a lot of practice."

"Were you following me home again?"

Eddie reaches out suddenly, hand moving to hover by Richie's cheek, where he holds it, searching his face like he's waiting for permission. Richie leans towards it, letting Eddie's fingertips brush his forehead. Eddie takes that consent and latches onto it, taking his other hand that's still holding Richie's wrist and bringing it to his face instead, cupping it between both hands. He smooths his thumbs over Richie's cheekbones, curls his fingers around the soft back of Richie's neck, letting out a sort of bone-deep sigh, like he's been waiting so long to do it.

"I wasn't following you," Eddie murmurs. "I'm never following you."

Richie can't help but snort. "Dude, you're _always_ following me."

Eddie's face turns serious, even as his hands stay gentle, tracing over the bridge of Richie's nose and the arch of his brows. "No, I'm not. I'm guarding you."

"Guarding me from what?"

"From the man who's actually following you."

Richie's heart stops for a moment, and his face must pale significantly, because Eddie's eyes turn sharp, and he adds, "I won't let him hurt you."

It takes a minute for Richie to find his voice. _"Who?"_

Eddie doesn't answer at first. He keeps touching Richie's face, reverently, like it's something holy and worthy of worshipping. He smooths his fingers through Richie's hair, pushing it away from his forehead.

"The night I first saw you," Eddie finally begins, voice quiet and thoughtful. "I was intrigued by you."

Richie wants to laugh at the word 'intrigued' used to describe him. He thinks back, to the first time he saw Eddie, watching him at the bar one night. "I was half drunk and wearing a Hawaiian print shirt."

Eddie smiles. "It was endearing. I wasn't there for you, though. I was there for Liam."

Richie can feel his stomach drop, confirming a suspicion he had long ago. "You... Liam?"

"Yes," Eddie says, like it's that simple. "I don't know why- they never tell me why. He was my target, so I was there to take him out."

"Take him out?" Richie repeats, laughing nervously. "What, like a hitman?"

Eddie looks at him with those piercing eyes. The laugh dies in Richie's throat as he realizes just how right he is.

"He was my target," Eddie continues eventually, like Richie hadn't interrupted him. "You were my partner's target. They partner us together based on how many targets we have in each city."

Richie's mind is still reeling. "Who the fuck put a hit out on me?" He gapes.

Eddie pauses for a moment as he thinks. "Noah, I believe."

 _"Noah?!"_ Richie almost shrieks. "Noah put a fucking hit out on me?!"

Eddie shrugs. "Like I said, they never tell us why.” Suddenly, his eyes turn sharp, and he drops his hands from Richie’s face, resting them instead on his shoulders. “Hold on. Did you say follow you home _again?”_

“Huh?” Richie says stupidly, because he’s still trying to process that somebody he knew- one of his _bosses,_ of all people- put out a hit to have him _murdered._

“Before,” Eddie clarifies. He taps two fingers firmly on Richie’s cheek to get his attention, something that Richie does not focus too much on for fear of getting an inappropriate boner. “Richie. Did you say ‘Were you following me home _again’?”_

“Yeah. Maybe a week and a half ago? When you came into my apartment.”

Eddie’s jaw tightens, and he closes his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose. “Richie,” He says. “I didn’t come into your apartment. I’ve never come into your apartment before tonight.”

Richie huffs out a laugh, smiling weakly when he mumbles, “What?” 

Eddie opens his eyes, and they're dark and deadly serious. They remind Richie of the look Eddie had given him the very first night he had seen him, at the bar, watching him from the shadowy corner. “Richie. Who came into your apartment?”

“I don’t know!” Richie can feel the tremble returning to his hands. He feels sick to his stomach as he’s hit with the realization that the person he had woken up to standing in his doorway was _not_ Eddie. He glances nervously at the still very dead body of the man on his living room floor.

“It wasn’t him, he’s just some mugger,” Eddie says, and he brings his hands up to cup Richie’s face so he’s forced to look him in the eye. “Do you remember what he looks like? What did he say to you? Did he do something to you?”

Richie shakes his head. “He didn’t do anything to me,” He reaches up and takes Eddie’s wrists in both hands, just to have something to hold onto and ground him as he feels like he’s about to hyperventilate. “He didn’t say anything either. I-I thought it was you, I asked why you were following me. He ran away as soon as he realized I was awake.”

Eddie’s thumbs have started stroking Richie’s cheekbones comfortingly, swiping back and forth with a gentle touch. “Hm,” He hums, eyes thoughtful and unfocused, fixed somewhere near Richie’s ear. “Okay. Okay. I’m going to take care of this, Richie.” 

Richie feels stupid as he says, “How?”, because he knows exactly what Eddie means.

Eddie smiles, and it’s something soft -softer than Richie would think the other man knew how to be. “Don’t worry,” He says, and it should mean nothing to Richie, should just be empty words, but it somehow soothes something deep inside of him. Like Eddie saying _don’t worry_ actually made him stop worrying. “I’m going to keep you safe.”

Richie nods. “Yeah, okay,” He whispers. He moves his hands to frame Eddie’s face as well, hovers them above his skin like he needs permission, and doesn’t touch until Eddie leans his cheek ever so slightly into Richie’s palm. Eddie’s skin is smooth and warm, and Richie thumbs over the scar on his cheek, making a mental note to ask how he got it at a later time. “Can I kiss you now, or did I read this entire relationship wrong?”

Eddie, to his credit, laughs, even though Richie thinks he just sounded awkward and desperate. “Yes,” Eddie says, and he leans in, lips brushing Richie’s own, teasing. “But only one, because I need to move the body before rigor mortis sets in.” 

“You sure know how to sweet talk a guy,” Richie breathes out, and Eddie laughs again into his mouth.

-:-

Richie decides the best way to break the news to his friends about Eddie is to not tell them at all. After all, he’s not entirely sure what the social protocol is for telling your friend group that the person who you had previously thought was stalking you was protecting you from your _actual_ stalker. And that they had also murdered someone for you, dragged the body to your apartment, and you had, for some unidentifiable, absolutely insane reason, kissed them over it.

Richie thinks telling his friends is probably not the best idea. He’s confident in that opinion. So when he’s squished into a cab with all of them on Saturday night, all of them pleasantly drunk, and they pull up to the curb of Richie’s place and Eddie is sitting on his front stoop with his head in his hands, Richie’s whole heart drops into his stomach in a mix of anticipation and dread.

“Oooooh, Richie’s got a hot date waiting for him!” Beverly calls, much too loudly from where she’s seated in the passenger seat. “Richie’s gonna get-”

Eddie looks up, then, at the car pulling to a stop, and Beverly very clearly chokes on her words, the rest of his friends sobering up just as quickly as they all (unfortunately) recognize Eddie immediately.

“Richie, holy shit, stay in the car,” Ben says, and Richie opens the car door so quickly he almost snaps the handle right off.

“It’s fine!” He assures them, and they all look at him like he’s out of his mind. He probably is, all things considered. “We’re fine, now!”

“Y-you’re _fine now?”_ Bill repeats, scandalized. “What t-the fuck does t-that-?” 

“See you guys Monday! Take ‘em home, good sir,” Richie cuts him off cheerfully and slams the door shut. Beverly clearly shouts something at him, and Mike looks like he’s reaching for the handle, but the cab driver obviously can’t be bothered, and speeds off as soon as the door is barely closed.

Richie waits until the car has rounded the corner and is out of sight before turning on his heel to face Eddie. The man is slumped back now, resting on his palms behind him, and he smiles lazily at Richie.

“I see your friends like me,” Eddie says, and his voice sounds too loud on the now quiet street. Distantly, a police siren wails, and Richie suddenly feels paranoid. He fishes for his keys in his pocket, approaching the other man.

“Yeah, you’ve got their stamp of approval, for sure,” Richie says. He stops on the top step where he’s sitting, and at this angle, Eddie has to stretch his head all the way back to look up at Richie, exposing the long line of his throat. Richie swallows and shifts his stance uncomfortably. “You coming in?”

Eddie smiles at him again, and there’s a haze to his eyes that Richie is just now noticing that he’s closer. Almost like he’s drunk, or high. “I don’t think I can get up,” He replies simply.

Richie snorts. He unlocks his front door before shoving his keys back in his pocket and huffing as he squats down to hook Eddie’s arm over his shoulder. It takes a few tries, but he finally hauls Eddie to his feet, grunting with the effort, one hand holding the wrist over his shoulder and the other pressed close to Eddie’s other side, which is wet, for some reason. Eddie stumbles on his feet, and laughs giddily.

“Wow,” He says, resting his head against Richie’s shoulder. “What a big, strong man.”

Richie grumbles something in response, struggling to carry Eddie’s dead weight through the doorway and kick it closed behind him. He half carries, half drags Eddie to the living room sofa, where he sets him down gently. “Are you on drugs?”

“Honestly?” Eddie asks, that lazy smile returning. “I am on so many opioids right now I don’t even remember how I got here. Also, I think you have five heads.”

Richie frowns at him. “How did you-” He begins, but then he straightens up and pulls his hands away from Eddie and the one that was on Eddie’s flank comes back absolutely coated in fresh blood. “Oh, Eddie, what the _fuck!”_

“Yeah,” Eddie nods, like he’s confirming the weather. “Why do you think I’m so high?”

Richie drops to his knees, cursing again, and starts pushing Eddie’s jacket off his shoulders. It reveals a sickening looking red stain on Eddie’s right side, and Richie tugs at Eddie’s shirt, pulling it off without any fight from the other man. “Eddie, what the fuck, man, what the fuck did you do?” 

Eddie moves limply as Richie undresses him. “I mean, _I_ didn’t stab myself. Henry did that. But I _did_ take his oxycodone, so, you know. Who’s really the winner here?”

“Obviously not you!” Richie almost shrieks, blood running cold when he finally gets a good look at the wound. It’s not as deep as he thought it was, but it’s long, stretching from Eddie’s hip bone to just below his right nipple. It looks red and raw, blood smeared all over and around it, Eddie’s pale skin stained pink with it. “Oh, Christ, Eds, I don’t fucking know how to stitch up a wound like this, I barely know how to disinfect paper cuts.”

Eddie lets out a breathy sort of noise, slumped against the couch, his head rolling and his eyes hazy as he looks at Richie. “Don’t call me Eds,” He says in a voice that sounds like he means exactly the opposite.

Richie ignores him, instead reaching up to grab Eddie’s chin firmly to keep his head still. “Eddie, _look at me._ What do I fucking do?”

Eddie, giggling now, takes Richie’s hand in his own and squeezes. “Sewing needle,” He announces in a slurred voice. “Floss and band-aids.”

“Are these things I need?” Richie asks, jumping to his feet and already running to the bathroom to dig through the cabinets. Eddie says something else, and Richie pokes his head out of the doorway, shouting, “What?”

“Alcohol!” Eddie repeats, louder this time. “Vodka would be best.”

Richie gathers up things in his arms, stumbling out of the bathroom and dumping them on the cushion beside Eddie. “I don’t have straight vodka, Eddie, I’m not a Russian man in my sixties,” He holds up the brown bottle he brought from the bathroom. “I have hydrogen peroxide, that’ll work, right?”

Eddie stares at it for a second, startled, before letting out a short laugh. “Oh! To clean the wound, you mean? I just wanted alcohol to drink.” 

Richie glares at him. “I’m not giving you alcohol while you’re doped up on opioids, dick.”

Eddie flashes him a grin. “Not even a little bit?”

Richie doesn’t bother responding, dropping to his knees again so he’s face-level with the wound. “Tell me what to do.”

Eddie tilts his head back against the couch, closing his eyes, and that does nothing to calm Richie’s nerves, which are screaming at him that Eddie was about to _die_ (he wasn’t, he wouldn’t even bleed out too quickly at this rate, but it was enough to be stressed over). “First, clean the wound with gauze,” He says, his words still slurring together.

Richie follows Eddie’s instructions better than he has followed any in his entire life. Eddie recites off what to do like he’s done it hundreds of times, something Richie does not want to spend too long considering. Richie’s fingers shake when he threads the needle and grips Eddie's hip for leverage, but they stop when he slides the needle through Eddie’s skin for the first time, like his brain knows this is serious and knows to control his limbs while he works. Eddie doesn’t even flinch, keeps his unnaturally still the entire time, and although Richie knows that’s mostly due to the amount of drugs he’s on, he thinks it’s also an attribute to just how used to sewing up stab wounds Eddie is.

In the end, Richie sews seventeen messy stitches into Eddie’s skin, and covers the whole thing up with too many pink band-aids with hearts on them that Beverly had bought him as a gag gift. When he’s finished, he holds tight on Eddie’s hips, all the tension sinking out of his body, and rests his forehead on Eddie’s stomach.

“Fuck,” He mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut. “Fucking hell. Let’s never do that again, Eds.” 

Eddie hums, and Richie feels the other man’s fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently. “Okay.”

They sit in silence like that for a while, Richie between Eddie’s thighs on the floor, the hardwood aching on his knees but not wanting to pull his face away from the warm, bare skin of Eddie’s stomach. Eddie strokes his hair tenderly, runs his finger over the curves of Richie’s ear and makes him shiver, but other than that, he lets Richie sit quietly.

“Rich,” Eddie finally says, softly, and the nickname makes a shiver run down Richie’s spine. “Can we go to your bed? I’m about to pass out, and I don’t think your old man knees could take falling asleep in this position.”

“Fuck you,” Richie mumbles into Eddie’s skin. He pulls away, adjusts his glasses so he can see. Eddie still has a hand in his hair, and he uses his grip on it to tilt Richie’s head up to look at him. “Yeah, we can go. Can you walk?”

Eddie smiles at him, that soft thing again. “Absolutely not.”

Richie groans, but it’s mostly for show, because immediately after he gets to his feet and hauls Eddie into his arms bridal style. His back twinges, and he prays he isn’t going to throw it out or collapse before they even reach the bedroom. It’s worth it solely because Eddie looks up at him with sleepy eyes and grins like it’s the best day of your life.

“Don’t look so happy,” Richie grumbles as he deposits Eddie on the bed as gently as possible. “You got stabbed.”

“Still a good night,” Eddie mumbles, his eyes closing immediately. Richie’s head spins at the sight of Eddie in his bed, against his pillows, and he has to take a deep breath through his nose before he kicks off his shoes and jacket and joins him.

He turns off the light and lays down beside Eddie, and for a very brief moment, he’s not sure what to do next- not sure why he feels awkward after having just sewn a needle through this man’s skin- but Eddie stops his nervousness in his tracks.

“Come hold me,” Eddie demands, and it comes out barely coherent, but who is Richie to not obey? He scoots as close as he can and wraps his arms around Eddie, tucking his nose into his throat. Eddie lets out a sigh, his body seeming to finally relax and settle for the first time that night.

“Goodnight, Eds,” Richie whispers. All he gets in response is a snore.

-:-

When Richie wakes the next morning, Eddie is gone.

He receives a stern talking to from his friends, which is to say they tear him a new one the next time they are all together, two nights later, and he has to sit there and take it because what is he supposed to say? _Oh, I think I’m sexually attracted to my stalker, so that’s what I meant when I said ‘we’re alright now’. Also, he was only at my apartment that night because he had been stabbed and was high as fuck and needed me to sew him up on my living room couch. Anyway, anyone want another round?_ Though it’s appealing, he knows realistically he can’t say that, so he just lets them chew him out and nods through it like he’s learned his lesson and was too drunk to realize the danger at the time. They even go as far as to walk him home that night, and Ben, who had changed the locks just a week ago, goes ahead to scope out Richie’s apartment and make sure no one is hiding in the closet (Although Richie wouldn’t really mind if Eddie _was_ hiding in his closet, he’s not entirely sure what the man would do to Ben upon being found. Stab him, maybe, so Richie is relieved when the apartment turns up empty).

Richie hadn’t thought twice about Eddie disappearing before he had awoken, and he doesn’t think twice about it until it’s nearly a week later, and he realizes he hasn’t seen the man in exactly six days. After sewing up a stab wound like that, Richie isn’t concerned he died from it, but he _is_ concerned that Eddie accumulated new ones. Or something worse.

It’s maddening. Richie lays in bed for hours, night after night, staring at the ceiling and turning over ways that Eddie could’ve been hurt in his head (he doesn’t dare think _killed_ or _dead,_ because it terrifies him to a point he can’t begin to explain, which is shocking in itself, and putting words to that terror would only make it more real). He remembers the name ‘Henry’ from Eddie’s slurred stupor while Richie sewed him up, knows that’s the man who had stabbed him, and even considers going as far as searching up people named Henry in the city. It’s such a stupid thought Richie also considers smacking his head into the wall a few times just to see if it’ll help bring him back to some sort of semblance of normalcy, before he started obsessing over an almost stranger’s whereabouts at all hours of the night. 

Thankfully, his madness cumulates and is put to a stop about a week and a half later. It’s nearing three in the morning, and Richie is laying in bed, eyes closed but not asleep, listening to the sounds of the city through his cracked open window, trying not to let his thoughts stray to big brown eyes and hands that touch like he’s holy. In the entryway, there is the very obvious sound of the front door creaking open, and what sounds like a grunt of pain.

Richie springs out of bed so quickly his vision goes black for a moment. He stumbles over his own feet to get to the other room, and sure enough, when he stands in the living room, he finds Eddie in the entryway.

Eddie stands there panting and dripping blood all over Richie’s doormat, and he doesn’t even have time to wonder if it’s his or someone else’s before the other man is charging at him and crashing their lips together like he’s a man on a mission.

Eddie’s mouth is slick and warm against his, and his hands come up to curl into the collar of Richie’s shirt, pulling him like he can’t get close enough. Richie makes a surprised sound into the kiss, already feeling disoriented from being so close. He tries to say something, but every time he opens his mouth Eddie just licks his way into him and it’s making Richie’s voice die in his throat.

“Fuck me, Richie” Eddie suddenly gasps between them, sucking on Richie’s bottom lip and making something electric zing up his spine. “Come on, fuck me.”

Richie tries to pull away again, to say something, but Eddie’s hands are sliding up underneath his shirt, fingers cool and sticky with something Richie does not want to place. Eddie tweaks one of his nipples and a full body shudder runs through him.  
“Shouldn’t we-” Richie starts, when Eddie moves his mouth down his jaw and to his neck, latching on and sucking marks there like they were in high school and Eddie wanted everyone to know who Richie belonged to. “Are you sure you-”

“Shut the fuck up and take me to your bedroom,” Eddie snaps, biting down on a particularly large hickey he’s leaving at the juncture of Richie’s neck and shoulder.

“Yeah, okay,” Richie says, and without further preamble, he wraps his arms around Eddie and hoists him into his arms. Eddie lets out a noise of delight, immediately wrapping his legs around Richie’s hips. He isn’t sure if it’s pure adrenaline or just the power of how turned on he is right now that makes him strong enough to carry Eddie to his bedroom, but he knows for a fact he probably won’t be able to do it again.

He drops Eddie onto the bed with a bounce, and Eddie doesn’t unhook his legs from around Richie, so he comes tumbling down on top of him. Eddie’s waiting for it, reaches out to take Richie’s face in both hands so he can pull him into a kiss again.

“You should take off your pants,” Eddie murmurs into Richie’s mouth.

“Huh?” Richie replies stupidly, too enraptured by the sweet silkiness of Eddie’s lips to have any of his brain cells firing normally. 

Eddie lets go of his face so he can reach down, untying the drawstring of Richie’s pajama pants and pawing at the hem of them. “Richie,” He whines, and it sounds so much like begging that Richie scrambles to take off his pants himself, desperate to please Eddie in any way.

He shoves his pants and boxers down in one go, gets them stuck around his knees because he refuses to lift up even an inch off of Eddie’s body, warm and hard and inviting beneath him. Eddie is back to kissing him, making these tiny little noises into his mouth, and Richie’s whole body jerks and lights up when Eddie reaches between them and wraps a hand around the base of his cock.

Eddie gives him one long stroke, and suddenly he’s pulling away from their kiss to glance down between them. He lets out a moan that verges on obscene and squeezes his eyes shut again.

“Oh, fuck, Rich, you’re fucking _huge,”_ He gasps, and Richie can feel himself flushing.

“Yeah,” He says, because he can’t think of anything else to say. He preoccupies himself with kissing down Eddie’s neck, pawing at his jacket and shirt and why was he wearing so many clothes when Richie was already half naked?

Eddie still seemed fixated on his dick, though, and he strokes it again, looking almost reverent as he stares. “Fuckin’ hell,” He whispers, half to himself. “You’re gonna fuck me so well, Richie.”

“Yeah,” Richie says again, and he slips the hand he’s not holding himself up with between them as well so he can start unbuttoning Eddie’s pants. “Yeah, whatever you want, baby.”

Eddie’s breath hitches at the pet name. He stares up at Richie as he jerks him off, slowly, watches the way Richie fumbles twice with the zipper before he can get Eddie’s pants open and shove his own hand down them. Eddie makes a noise like a gasp is caught in his throat when Richie finally touches him, and his whole body shivers. He lets go of Richie (much to his chagrin) so he can use both hands to shove off his own pants and boxers in a rush. 

At first Richie was in awe at the view, at his hand wrapped around Eddie’s cock, at the pink flush that travelled all over the other man’s pale, smooth skin, at the way his thighs fell open so willingly for Richie to fit between. But then Richie notices something, and his awe is quickly replaced with such an intense streak of arousal he almost blacks out.

“Eddie,” He says, voice hushed like he’s telling a secret. He trails his hand low, lower, follows the sticky trail of lube from just behind Eddie’s balls to his perineum to his hole, which is slick and _loose._ “Did you- are you-” He can’t seem to get the words out, too shocked and turned on to formulate a sentence. His brain feels like it’s whited out to static noise when he slides two fingers inside the other man without any resistance, smooth and wet and hot on the inside. 

Eddie lets out a throaty moan, hands sliding at his sides as he tries to find purchase in the sheets. Richie thrusts his fingers, gently, and Eddie makes the same noise again. Richie is already obsessed with it, already wants him to keep making it. Wants to set it as his fucking ringtone. He curls his fingers, just a little, just enough for him to feel it, and Eddie wails.

“Did you plan this?” Richie asks, and his voice doesn’t sound like his own. It’s deep and grated, rough like he can’t get it out properly. Eddie seems to like it, because his head snaps up from where it’d fallen back, and he meets Richie’s gaze with wide, blown out eyes. Richie scissors his fingers out, stretches Eddie even more, catalogues every breath and gasp and what causes it for future reference. “Did you finger yourself all alone just so you’d be ready for me?”

Eddie lurches back onto Richie’s fingers and nods desperately. Richie grins down at him and pulls his hand back just to slide a third finger in with the others. Eddie clenches around him, sobbing.

“You wanted it that badly, huh? Couldn’t even wait for me to do it for you?”

Eddie shakes his head, visibly trembling with pleasure. “Wanted-” He gasps, pushing back and meeting every rock of Richie’s wrist with his hips, chasing it now. “Wanted to- ah! -wanted to do it right after.”

“Right after?” Richie echoes, frowning. It takes a little longer than usual for his brain to catch up- because he’s three fingers deep in a hot guy and his dick is harder than it’s been since he went through puberty- but he realizes it a few seconds later. Realizes what Eddie’s talking about when he sweeps his gaze over him and the blood on Eddie’s jacket reflects the light coming through the window. “Oh.”

Eddie has the gall to look sheepish, even with his hands fisted in the sheets and his cock leaking precome onto his stomach. He looks like he’s expecting Richie to yell at him, or even pull away in disgust, and Richie knows that would be a logical response, but he’s pretty sure he sailed past logical weeks ago when it came to Eddie.

Instead, he twists his fingers purposefully, curls them on a particularly hard thrust and nails Eddie right in his prostate. Eddie’s whole body jerks and he sobs, hands shooting forward to grab hold of Richie’s arm like it’s a life preserver.

“God, you’re so _hot,_ what the fuck,” Richie growls, because he’s given up acting sane anymore. He pulls his fingers out of Eddie, shakes his hands off his arm so he can scramble for his bedside table. “Hang on, I have condoms somewhere in this-”

Eddie grabs his thighs in a surprisingly strong grip, not letting him move. “No, it’s not-” He bites his lip, glancing down at Richie’s cock and then shooting him another almost sheepish look. “We don’t need a condom.”

Richie raises an eyebrow at him. “We don’t? I mean, I’m good if you’re good, but it’s, you know. Common courtesy.”

Eddie swallows hard, shaking his head slowly. “I promise you, I’m clean.”

Richie shrugs. He stretches his arm to the table’s drawer anyway, digging around for the bottle of lube he kept in there. Eddie’s fingers curl and uncurl nervously on his thighs, neatly manicured nails digging into the soft skin there. Richie thinks he can feel him still trembling.

“Hey,” He says as he settles back into place, uncapping the lube to squirt some into his hand. “Don’t be nervous. I’ll go slow.”

“I’m not nervous,” Eddie snaps, although he avoids Richie’s gaze. “I’m impatient. Put your fucking dick in me or I’ll find someone who will.”

Richie grins at him, reaching down to fist his own cock and spread the lube over it. Eddie unabashedly stares.

“Is it ‘cause I’m so _‘fucking huge’?”_ Richie asks smugly, but his humor dissipates as soon as Eddie doesn’t respond, looking too entranced watching Richie stroke himself. “Eddie. Eds.”

“What?” Eddie asks again, face flushing as he catches himself and meets Richie’s gaze instead.

Richie smiles more gently this time, reaching down to line himself up with Eddie’s hole, his free hand pressed up against the inside of Eddie’s thigh to keep him spread open. “You ready?”

Eddie’s hands twist more tightly into the sheets, and he nods, eyes serious.

Richie presses in, ever so slowly. Eddie’s whole face scrunches up cutely, and Richie just has to lean down to kiss his nose. Eddie’s hands uncurl from the sheets and suddenly he’s grabbing at Richie, pulling his face close with both hands so he can press their mouths together.

It’s mostly just Eddie panting into Richie’s mouth, body held taut like a bow string as Richie pushes in. When the head pops in, Eddie’s body jerks, and Richie can’t stop the moan he lets out at the movement.

“Just relax,” Richie whispers against Eddie’s lips. “You’re too tight, baby. You gotta let me in.”

Eddie nods, eyes squeezed shut. His whole body relaxes fractionally, the tiniest amount, but Richie takes it and pushes in more. He has a brief moment of worrying he’s actually hurting Eddie, until the other man hooks his legs up around Richie’s waist and presses his ankles into the small of his back, muttering, “Go faster, asshole.”

“You’re the asshole,” Richie grumbles, to which Eddie laughs into another kiss. It loosens the tension in his body even more and after a few minutes Richie is bottoming out, and Eddie is biting at his lips and gasping into his mouth like his life depends on it.

Experimentally, Richie rocks his hips the smallest increment. Eddie makes a noise that is high and desperate in the back of his throat. 

“Good?” Richie asks. He hooks his hands around Eddie’s waist, hikes him up even more so he’s practically in Richie’s lap, and gives a good, solid thrust. Eddie’s head rolls back onto the mattress as he lets out an affirmative noise, exposing his throat in a long line of smooth, unblemished skin. Richie is sure that needs to be changed immediately, so he leans down to latch his mouth against the skin, starting up a smooth, steady pace with his hips.

Eddie moans like a porn star as Richie fucks him, the noises only furthering Richie’s desire to please. He curls one hand in Richie’s hair, tugging not so gently as Richie leaves big, blooming bruises on his neck- ones that’ll take a while to fade, ones that others will see and _know_ somebody fucked Eddie good. And good doesn’t even cover it- euphoric, is what Richie thinks, because Eddie is so slick and hot and tight around him, his whole body shuddering, his legs locked around Richie’s hips and his chest heaving where it’s pressed against Richie’s, both of them still wearing their shirts because they were too eager to take them off before and it’s too late now. 

Then Richie hitches Eddie’s hips a little, changes the angle, and it must be perfect and hit Eddie’s sweet spot dead on because the other man suddenly sobs and cries out, “Oh, my God, _Richie.”_

Richie grins stupidly, directing all of his strength and energy into his thrusts, grips Eddie’s hips so hard he’s sure he’s going to leave bruises. “Good?” He asks, again, because his brain is kind of goo right now, and all he can think about is how fucking sexy Eddie looks beneath him.

Eddie nods rapidly, squeezing his eyes shut again. Every time Richie hits his prostate he lets out these little “uh-uh” noises, body rocking with it, and Richie swears he could come just from the sight alone.

Until Eddie gasps out, “I get it now.”

“Get what?” Richie asks, panting every time Eddie clenches around him and sends pleasure like electricity zinging up his spine with every thrust.

“I get-” Eddie has to pause, sounding breathless. “I get why people go crazy for sex, now.”

Richie nods, brain not catching up to the words. “Yeah,” He mumbles. And then- “Wait, what did you say?” 

He slows his thrusting as his mind reels to register Eddie’s words. Eddie lets out a disappointed noise, trying to push back against Richie’s cock and get him to start fucking him again. “Eds, did you say you get it _now?”_

“Huh?” Eddie says dizzily, squirming like it might make Richie start up again.

“Did you say you get it _now?”_ Richie’s mouth finally catches up with his brain, and he stares down at Eddie with a look of abject horror. “Are you a fucking virgin?”

Eddie flushes a very bright shade of pink and turns his head away so he doesn’t have to look Richie in the eye. “Well, technically not anymore,” He finally replies, and he clenches down on Richie to prove his point. 

Richie grits his teeth against the sensation, closing his eyes. “Eddie, you should’ve told me. I could’ve- this should’ve been better for you if it was your fucking _first time.”_

When he opens them, Eddie is looking up at him with a curious expression. He looks almost annoyed, mouth set in a hard line, and when Richie opens his mouth to speak again, the sheer glare Eddie gives him is enough to shut him up.

“I don’t want something _better,”_ Eddie says, slowly. There’s a hard glint in his eye, and the way the low light of the room sets his face into shadows reminds Richie of all those times he was being watched. Of the type of person he’s dealing with, the type of person Eddie is. “I want _you.”_

Richie meets his gaze, head still reeling. Eddie looks up at him unwaveringly and, just to be an asshole, probably, clenches around him again. Makes Richie lose his serious edge because he can’t help the way he gasps from the feeling. 

“We’re so talking about this later,” Richie warns, but he slowly starts back up his rhythm again. Eddie lets out a pleased noise and reaches up to wrap his arms around Richie’s neck, so his back is curved against the mattress and he can kiss Richie properly.

“Yeah, sure, whatever you want,” Eddie mumbles against his lips, and Richie knows he’s already lost this fight.

When Eddie comes, it’s mere minutes later, while Richie is fucking into him with a brutal pace and finally gets a hand around his cock. Eddie sobs and gasps and writhes on the sheets, face scrunched up cutely again and mouth hanging open like he can’t control himself.

“Richie, Richie, _Richie,”_ He pants, hands coming up to squeeze at Richie’s arms so he has something to hold onto. Eddie tightens around him, his whole body clenching, and it blooms pleasure along Richie’s nerves, burning just on the edge of oversensitive. Eddie comes all over Richie’s hand and his own stomach, and the tight squeeze of him around Richie is just enough to send him barreling into his own climax headfirst, gasping out, “Eddie,” as it happens.

He shudders through it, hips still jerking reflexively, and lowers himself so he’s chest to chest with Eddie. Beneath him, the other man struggles to get his breath back, clearly winded and disoriented. When Richie pulls back as the last of the dredges of pleasure tingle through him, Eddie is staring at the ceiling, eyes unfocused.

Richie presses a kiss to his forehead, gently. “Eds?”

Eddie hums a noise in response, and it takes a slow moment for him to drag his eyes from the ceiling to meet Richie’s instead.

“You should take a shower,” Richie suggests. Something warm and fuzzy that he doesn’t think should suit the situation at hand fills his lungs, and he has to shake it off, clearing his throat before he can speak again. He pulls out slowly, watching Eddie wince lightly at the feeling, and grins. “Or maybe a bath would be better.”

Eddie hums again and nods. His eyes are half-lidded, and his whole body is loose and pliant against Richie’s sheets. Distantly, Richie reminds himself he’s going to have to wash his sheets some point in the near future- there’s not only come on them now, but definitely blood, too.

He gets to his feet, his back popping loudly, and feels around on the floor for his discarded pajama pants. When he finds them he slips them back on; Eddie watches him the whole time with a doped up expression, eyes still hazy.

“I’ll be right back,” Richie says, and Eddie just nods again. Richie heads for the bathroom, to plug the tub and run the faucet with hot water. He even puts in some of those bath salts that Beverly got him years ago, spending too much time wondering if bath salts have an expiration date.

When he wanders back into the bedroom, Eddie is still laying in exactly the same position as he had been before, although he was struggling to remove his jacket without getting up. Richie laughs, and Eddie must hear it, because he flops back down, shooting a petulant looking glare in his direction.

“Can you stand up?” Richie asks, approaching the bed. Eddie grunts and hauls himself into a sitting position; almost immediately after, he grimaces and shifts his hips uncomfortably. Richie laughs again. “Really regretting not using that condom now, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Eddie grumbles, and his voice sounds raw. Richie briefly imagines what his voice would sound like after sucking cock, but he banishes the thought instantly for fear of popping another boner. He was too old to go so soon again, even if his dick had other plans. “Go get me a towel.”

Richie salutes him. “Sir, yes, sir,” He says cheerily, and dashes off to the hallway closet to fetch one.

When Richie returns to the bathroom, Eddie is sinking into the bathtub, body tense and held tight, face pinched like it’s painful to even relax. Some water splashes onto the tile, and Richie steps in to turn off the faucet, eyes raking over Eddie’s fully naked form. He stops at his chest, where the other man is sporting a horrific looking bruise directly over his heart, black and purple and blooming out over his pec to a point that Richie is sure if he tried, his whole hand from palm to fingertip wouldn’t even cover it.

“Jesus Christ,” Richie whispers. Eddie opens one eye to look at him, and Richie gestures at the bruise. “Your chest.”

Eddie huffs out a noise that could be considered a laugh in any other circumstance and closes his eye, tilting his head back against the edge of the tub. “Bulletproof vests don’t stop the bruising.”

Richie blanches. “You were _shot?”_

Eddie nods tightly. “Yeah,” He says, and his voice sounds tiny and surprisingly vulnerable when he adds on, “Hurts a lot.”

Richie springs to his feet. “I have arnica cream,” He says, immediately going for the cabinet under the sink to rifle through for it. “It’ll help.” 

When he turns back around, Eddie has his eyes on him, and they’re dark in some way that Richie can’t explain. He stands there for a second, both of them staring, before slowly getting to his knees beside the edge of the tub.

Eddie stays silent as Richie unscrews the small tin and scoops out some of the cream onto his fingers. He doesn’t move even when Richie reaches out to smear it over the center of the bruise, although it’s so bad it must be tender to even the slightest of touch. Richie smooths the cream over it as gently as he can; for some reason, this feels more intimate than anything else they’ve done tonight.

Eddie’s body begins relaxing incrementally, and he closes his eyes again and tips his head back against the tiles. Richie watches the curve of his neck as he does, counts the hickeys he himself left on the pale skin and wonders how long each one will take to fade.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” Eddie mumbles suddenly, as Richie takes another dollop of cream out and spreads it evenly over the ombre edges of the bruise.

“Tell me what?” Richie asks.

“That I was… you know,” Eddie opens one eye to look at him, cheeks flushing. “I’d never been with someone.”

“Oh,” Richie says. He’s mostly covered the whole bruise by now, but he doesn’t really want to stop touching Eddie, so he spreads his palm out and pets his chest, just letting his hand graze the skin. Eddie says nothing, so he assumes it’s okay. “I mean, it wouldn’t have changed anything other than me going slower. If you hadn’t fingered yourself beforehand I probably would have done some serious damage.”

Eddie snorts and closes his eye again. “Don’t get too cocky.”

Richie grins. Together, they sit in silence, Richie reverently stroking at the bruise on Eddie’s chest, and Eddie breathing evenly, his body still going slowly slack. Richie wonders what tension he’s holding- what’s the source of it. Or rather, which aspect of the night was the source of it.

He doesn’t need to wonder much, because after ten minutes or so, he accidentally presses a little too hard on the bruise, and Eddie’s whole body tenses up again, shuddering violently.

“Whoa,” Richie says, unsure of what to do. He reaches out to grab hold of Eddie’s shoulders, trying to hold him still. “Hey, Eddie, Eds, it’s okay.”

Eddie’s eyes fly open, and they’re unfocused again, like they were after he came. His voice shakes when he replies, “Sorry, sorry, it’s just,” He has to take a deep breath before he can continue. “It’s different, having someone here… after.”

“After?” Richie repeats questioningly. Eddie reaches up to gently pat at the bruise on his chest, and Richie feels a little shock go through his system as he realizes, _Oh, yeah. Eddie probably killed someone tonight. Probably his partner who was trying to kill me._ “Oh.”

Eddie nods. He moves his hand to take one of Richie’s in his own, interlocking their fingers together. He tries to sink back down into the bath, but his body has tensed back up again, and he just winces like he’s in pain. His eyes look a little wet, like he might start crying. 

Richie reaches out with his free hand to smooth back Eddie’s hair, a gesture that the other man clearly likes, if the way he leans into it is any indication.

“Maybe we shouldn’t fuck immediately after you, like... murder someone,” Richie says, and Eddie’s fly open, most likely in shock at how casually Richie mentions it. “I don’t think it’s good for your brain. All those adrenaline highs and stuff.” 

“What do _you_ know about my brain chemicals?” Eddie asks scathingly, although it’s dimmed by the way he slurs his words slightly when Richie starts scratching at his scalp.

Richie shrugs. “Dunno. But I’m sure I’ve got a lot of time to find out.”

It slips out, like an admission he wasn’t ready to voice, and for a moment he freezes, sure he’s said something wrong. Addressed something that they weren’t supposed to touch, made this little bubble they were living in too real and popped it to let the outside world in.

But Eddie just lets out a groan of appreciation, sinking further into the water. “I’m sure you do,” He hums, and Richie’s glad he’s closed his eyes again so he can’t see the stupid grin on Richie’s face.

-:-

Approximately three weeks later, Eddie gets a letter delivered to Richie’s doorstep.

The things that are strange about it are; One, Eddie doesn’t technically live with Richie. He just spends most of his free time at his apartment, and sleeps there every night, and has an extra toothbrush in his bathroom because despite his line of work, he is a clean freak and blanched at the idea of them sharing something as dirty as a toothbrush. 

And Two, absolutely no one outside the two of them know that they have been sleeping together.

The letter doesn’t even have a return address- it’s a simple white envelope addressed to ‘Eddie Kaspbrak’ (if it’s the first time Richie has heard Eddie’s last name, neither of them mention it) and Richie’s address below. Richie flips it over and over as he walks back into the kitchen, ignoring the other pile of bills and junk mail actually addressed to him.

“What’s that?” Eddie asks, orange juice glass in hand and newspaper half spread out on the counter in front of him. He zeros in on the letter immediately, narrowing his eyes at it. “Is that for me?”

Richie gives him an exasperated look. “I feel personally attacked every time you flaunt your perfect eyesight around me.” 

Eddie ignores him, instead setting down his glass and snatching the letter out of Richie’s hand. He tears it open with a sudden intensity, tugging out the letter inside. Richie watches his eyes sweep the paper, the little crinkle between his brow getting deeper and deeper the further along he reads.

“Who’s it from?” Richie asks, when his curiosity can’t take it anymore. He comes around and peers over Eddie’s shoulder, adjusting his glasses. 

“I’ve been assigned a new partner,” Eddie says, slowly. Richie barely has time to read the lengthy letter before Eddie is flipping to the second paper attached- what looks like a profile on his new partner.

Richie scans the profile, takes in the ID photo in the left hand corner of a man with dark, curly hair, the listing of attributes and talents. 

“Stanley Uris,” He says, reading off the paper out loud. The dark eyes of the man in the photograph stare back at him, cold and dead looking. “Huh. Well, let’s hope he’s better than your last one.”

**Author's Note:**

> me? setting up a sequel to introduce american psycho style assassin stanley uris? it's more likely than you think...


End file.
